


The O'Brien/Sarcelle Chronicles

by cookiethewriter



Series: The O'Brien/Sarcelle Chronicles [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, I'm totally gonna take this seriously, Lord help them, NaNoWriMo, Original work - Freeform, if I don't finish it in time I still am gonna work on it, it's happening oh my god, this gon' be a bumpy ride
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-14
Updated: 2016-11-15
Packaged: 2018-08-31 00:44:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8555953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cookiethewriter/pseuds/cookiethewriter
Summary: Kat's life is flipped upside down when someone claiming to be her half brother comes waltzing into her life. But oh, it gets better: he wants to try to tie up those loose ends his father had left many years ago, the wounds scarred over but throbbing. 
Not to mention, she kind of has a sister she has to care for. And that's a whole other thing.





	1. Prologue: Scarlet and Gold

**Author's Note:**

> a general warning: there will be mentions of death, self-harm, prostitution, alcohol and symptoms of depression. They won't be terribly graphic, but if any of these things aren't for you, PLEASE, turn back. I promise I won't be upset. 
> 
> You are not meant to learn every detail of these characters in this work. They grow over time, and thus, their personalities will grow and change throughout this and future projects. Nevertheless, I hope you like this and my dorky kids.

Bruce O’Brien was a man of sharp wit and sharp clothes; he lives a conformed life, walks along the path set out before him, doesn’t stray and prefers it that way. He emanates power, manages to do so with little effort put in on his part, but perhaps being part of the O’Brien family could do that for somebody.

Not that his successes in the world are all because of his name. In fact, the thing only amplified his rise in the world, providing him with a good foundation for him to build his legacy upon. After that, the name became his own, not his family’s, and _O’Brien_  became more than a name. It became a title of respect, royalty, in a world where you were nothing if you didn’t come accompanied by a wad of cash in your pocket.

Cash. An abundance of it, in fact, lined his hypothetical pockets.

Bruce was a very rich, very powerful man. But that was his problem, wasn’t it? He was only _just_  a man, even if the world insisted on trying to prove that he, in fact, was not ‘just’.

Falling in love hadn’t ever been the plan. Marriage, that is to say, would happen eventually, if his mother had anything to say about it, but the prospect of such certainly didn’t give him any warm, fuzzy feelings. In fact, not a lot did these days, if one were to be totally honest, but… things went off-kilter, and for once in his life, he’d found himself off the beaten, straight, path.

And into the arms of a common woman named Charlotte.

And Charlotte was everything that Bruce should _not_  have loved: hair as red as a fire engine, wild as an open flame, eyes a pale green and smile pink and wide and beautiful. But, the word beautiful didn’t do her any true justice, because the greatest artist could not have captured her beauty in Bruce's image - the kind that looked good under any light, even none, her body all soft, pliant flesh and his own hard and thin and sharp.

But, while he had fallen in love with her, he could not _marry_  her. Mother wouldn’t allow it, mostly because Charlotte was a poor man’s daughter, had no money, no power behind her name. All the wrong reasons, the ones that killed the remnants of their love before it could truly begin. Not that such a fact bothered his mother any, either, because love was weak. Even Bruce’s father - all harsh words and deep frowns and _power power power_  - could not truly love a woman like his wife, every bit as powerful as she was dangerous.

She could make scandal disappear like _that._  

Scandal; that was what she called his romance with Charlotte, and she didn’t even pretend to be happy about the lightness he’d had in him over the course of their months’ long courtship. Not that they were allowed to be anywhere near each other - he would sneak away in the dark hours, wrap her up in his arms, promise her the world and break it the next day. They didn’t even really fight, though maybe that was in part by the fact that they only saw each other a couple of hours a night.

Life had to keep moving forward.

Bruce’s life had to keep moving forward _without Charlotte._

Mother made it positively clear that he was ‘never to see that harlot again’, or there would be consequences, and while Bruce didn’t know the extent she’d be willing to go to push them apart, he was fairly certain that the consequences would not be on _him _.__  His mother was not afraid of someone like Charlotte, in fact, she _despised_  her, so doing something horrible to her would not be beneath her if it meant her son could get back to the life (s)he had built.

So, one night, when they had promised to meet…

* * *

_“What do you mean? What are you talking about?”_

_Her eyes should not have been so cold toward him - she was every bit as warm as he was cold, melting away his jagged frowns and straight edges, so to see the role reversed was off-putting if not extremely stressful on his part - glistening with the sheen of something he didn’t want any part of, her features once lively pulled deep into a frown that dragged everything else down with it._

_He didn’t want to do this._

_“I cannot see you anymore.” It’s easy, to say the words when he has so much practice saying them behind a mask of indifference, as if the past few months had meant nothing to him. He just had to pretend to be as cold and unforgiving as… “We were never meant to be together. Even you must have seen that.” …he doesn’t want the next words to come, doesn’t like that he has to say them, will never forgive himself for… “I could never love someone like you.”_

_And, to Charlotte’s credit, she doesn’t break down into tears. She was emotional, yes, but one might actually say she was more angry than sad, because she isn’t stupid, despite not having gone to a prestigious university - or one in general, anyway - and it doesn’t take a genius to put two-and-two together._

_“Your mother is a hell of a woman.”_

_“This doesn’t--”_

_“Don’t you lie to me!” And for the first time, Charlotte yells at him, eyes narrow and lips flashing white teeth. That wasn’t his Charlotte at all… and, hadn’t she had green eyes? “You can’t tell me that, after all you went through, you’re going to throw it all away?” Green, teal… blue. Blue eyes, his blue eyes  , glare back at him. Her skin took on a tanner pigment, too, like she worked all day in the sun when he knew she worked inside all day. He blinks once, twice, four times… and her petite body has rounded out, biceps a little thicker and shoulders square and features cold and resentful. _

_Who was this woman, all of a sudden?_

_Not Charlotte._

_“Who do you think you are?” He asks, trying to play his part, trying to act as if he hadn’t taken notice to the fact that he’d just watched the woman he loved transform into someone who looked a great deal like her, but… wasn’t, in fact, her. “You do not dictate the direction I head. You are nothing but an inconvenience.”_

_A …second woman appears, now - different from Charlotte, different from this woman standing before him now: pale, green eyes, curly hair pulled tight into a braid… delicate features. She looked more like Charlotte, but her curls were dipped in gold. Her eyes, the same as Charlotte, different from the cold woman still glaring daggers at his face, look sad. The way Charlotte would have looked. The way he remembers Charlotte looked. “You don’t dictate it either, do you?” _

_“Who are you?” he asks, breathless, taking a couple of steps back; they look like Charlotte, and when they look at each other, the light-haired girl taking the scarlet-haired by the hand, and turn back to him, it’s Scarlet who answers._

_“We’re…”_

* * *

_Scree! Scree! Scree!_

Bruce jumps, his head smacking against the lamp at his desk, his vision blurry as he tries to adjust to the light; he had fallen asleep, apparently, and it was that same dream, too. The dream that had him thinking of Charlotte again, of Scarlet and Gold and whatever that meant. Once or twice a week for the last few months… only getting more frequent as it neared closer to _that day_  twenty years ago.

But, the girl with golden hair was a new addition to the dream, only added more recently, but he has a feeling that it has something to do about his feeling around this time. How, even if he tries to ignore it, he can’t help but feel just a little bit guilty. But, before he can dwell on such an emotion, he chalks it up to his old age, despite him being only in his forties.

Gathering himself up and giving his head a shake, he drags a large paw of a hand down his face, wiping away his exhaustion and flicking his wrist like he was batting away a fly, before he hears his assistant stop in front of his door, left ajar. “Come in, Wendy.”

“Mr. O’Brien, um… your son is here.”

Nodding his head, he waves her in. “Yes, yes. Send him in.”

Wendy ducks out, quickly, her skirt flying behind her and loose black hair swinging behind her. No sooner is she out of sight that a lean guy, boyish face and soft green eyes, dressed in a clean dress shirt and black slacks, makes his way into the large office. His hair is a rich golden brown, swooped off of his forehead with mousse. A soft “Thank you, Wendy,” escapes his lips before he looks to his father, and upon seeing his state of groggy awareness, he shuts the door and walks over.

“Father, were you sleeping?”

Waving him off, Bruce drags his thumb and finger into his eyes, simultaneously rubbing the exhaustion out of them. “Impromptu. How long are you here for?”

A smile that doesn’t quite reach the younger man’s eyes follows the question - as if he actually believes that his father cares about ‘how long he’s here for’. Scrubbing a hand behind his neck, he stands opposite his father. “A few days.” There are words he doesn’t say that his tongue hugs close, keeping them away from his brain so that it can’t send the signals anyway. _I wanted to check on things_  or _I wanted to see if you missed me _.__  Both were enough to make him feel embarrassed.

Bruce doesn’t catch on, takes the short answer for what it is, and nods his head. Standing up, he starts shutting down his computer and scoops up the papers he’d been napping on - documents that needed his approval, to extend his brand into Europe. Plans he sought to oversee himself. But he didn’t have to send the documents through until the end of the month, and while he wasn’t one for being lazy or a procrastinator, sleep sounded like a much better idea at the current time.

His computer screen flicks to black and he closes his desk, scooping the documents up and putting them into his suitcase under the desk. Grabbing his jacket behind him, he walks out of the office, his son on his heels, head ducked a little as Bruce walks forward, acting more as the superior than the father.

His son waves at Wendy as they exit, his smile a bit more genuine than it had been toward his father, before they’re outside and walking toward the parking lot.

“Your room is as you left it,” Bruce says by way of invitation, but his son quickly shakes his head. “You won’t be staying at home then.”

“No, uh-- I’m booked into a hotel just out of town, because I’m only here for a night.”

“Very well. Good night, Kristian.”

And Kristian, for what it’s worth, at least has the patience to wait until his father’s big SUV is out of sight before he sighs, a little disappointed.

Because he isn’t here just for a few days. He is here for a couple of weeks, on break from business school, but he has an objective in mind. Walking back to his car - also an SUV, but contrary to his father’s black and bulky, his is sleek and silver - and climbing into the driver’s seat, he reaches over to the messenger bag in the passenger’s seat and fingers through a couple of documents of his own shoved into manila folders. Taking one out, he opens it, before his eyes fall upon a picture he’d only seen hidden in the folds of one of his father’s old photo albums… red hair, green eyes, warm smile.

“Alright, Charlotte,” he says softly to himself, folding the folder back up and putting it under his thigh as he starts the car and makes haste back to the hotel. “If he won’t tell me anything about you, I’ll just have to find you myself.”


	2. Sister Mine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The rest of the chapters - with exception of a few - will mostly be in Kat's POV. There will be some that switch to Kris', but mainly we're seeing the events within the story through Kat's eyes. (Not like we can see them through Grace's, ayyyyy.) ...anyway, enjoy.

~ 

_Meanwhile, somewhere else…_

~

By the time Katelina Sarcelle got out of her final course for a week, she was practically a zombie as she made the lone trek back to her apartment; medical school was no laughing matter, especially to someone who didn’t finish high school to begin with, and while she was nothing of a prodigy or genius, she seemed to think she had a good enough head on her shoulders when it came to schoolwork. It was a shock in itself that she had time to do it all, anyway, but thankfully… she didn’t have to worry about much over this break.

November.

Thanksgiving break - traffic was backed up all the way outside of campus, students trying to get out as soon as possible to go back to their families; to hearty food and big hugs and crowded dining rooms. God, she hadn’t had that in… _years _.__  But she was a decent-enough cook, and she was no big hugger, but she could try. And… well, she didn’t know…

( _or like_ )

…enough people to get her apartment crowded in any capacity.

Nope, it was just her and-

“Grace, I’m home, baby!”

Swinging her jacket off of her shoulders, Kat follows the sound of her own voice as it reverberates off of the opposite side of the hallway, pushing her hands on any doors that aren’t all the way closed before the last one on the left gives, and she steps inside.

A naked young woman sits bunched up in the bathtub, fingers clutching onto her arms where they’re crossed over her knees, and the young woman surges forward. “Baby, what happened?”

“Don’t call me baby,” utters Grace, honey-gold curls spilling out of the loose bun it had been tied in. Kat helps her onto her feet, picking up a fluffy towel and wrapping her up in it; Grace was her twin sister, a little frail, delicate in all the wrong ways and dainty and feminine and… the physical opposite of the older, who had thick red hair and bright blue eyes and was a little more filled out than the blonde. With a very _un_ -babylike pout, the smaller woman grips onto her sister as she’s helped out of the bath. “I was taking my bath, like usual, when I slipped trying to pick up the soap, and my bum hurt too much to get up, and- _Kaaaat_ , don’t laugh at me!”

“I-I’m not, I swear-” chuckle, snort, wheeze. “-Okay, I’m good now. Well, get yourself dried off and go get dressed. I’ll start dinner.” _With the little food we’ve actually got._  “Then I’ll give you your check-up. Okay?”

“Right,” Grace’s voice is a much brighter sound then, probably at the prospect of food, before she feels her way out of the bathroom, fingers gripping onto the protruded wooden molding mid-wall. Kat follows when she’s halfway, then when the door to her sister’s bedroom door closes, she walks in the opposite direction, into the kitchen with dated appliances and clean, but cluttered counter tops.

A great deal of her schoolwork was scattered along the top of one, spread out and dog-eared and messy highlighted marks all across others. Pushing those all aside, presumably out of order and a little crumpled in her haste, she turns to peek into the refrigerator and winces.

There wasn’t much in there.

Groaning, she takes out her old flip-phone - she barely used her phone, except for work - and presses buttons until she sees a few new messages, and knowing that she would _at least_  have work tonight, she figured she could stand to pick up some groceries tomorrow. Depending on how sore she was, that was.

There was a container of leftover rice, probably right on the cusp of goodness, and she takes it out and closes the door of the fridge; walking over to the closet in the corner - makeshift pantry, place to hang coats, and hide when things just got a little too much for her to handle - she reaches up a little to grab a can of vegetable broth and mixed vegetables, and ran for the kitchen once more.

Vegetable soup and rice? Fine. Whatever.

By the time Grace joins her back in the kitchen, the soup is steaming and hot, and she puts a couple of ladle-fulls of it into a bowl and placed it on the counter where the petite woman sat carefully, slowly.

“How are your eyes, ba- Gracie?”

Grace smiles, perhaps a hint of a snarky grin on those plump lips. “Fine. I’m no less blind than I was yesterday, Kat.” That… that makes the redhead flinch, biting on her lip to keep the pained sound in her throat, swallowing it down. Still, it doesn’t sting less, considering it was all her fault, why Grace was blind, and frail, and…

“You’re thinking too loud again.”

Kat breathes out slowly, shaking her head, wisps of scarlet falling into her face. “No, it’s nothing. Just eat, baby.”

And, even though she made a show of disliking the affectionate word before, Grace let that one go.

* * *

“Okay, I’m off. Do you want me to bring anything home?”

“No, no,” Grace waved a hand around, partly dismissive and other-partly shooing her sister. “I might just go to sleep.”

“Alright. I’ll be back in a few hours, okay?” A beat of quiet, watching Grace nod, before she interjects, “But, the boss-man might ask me to work overnight. Will you be okay until tomorrow?”

“Yes, Kat. Go to work.”

Kat smiles, even if her sister can’t see it, but her face falls the second she turns out of the room and leaves the apartment, the cold nipping at her exposed back, long legs and face.

* * *

Whoring her body wasn’t the ideal choice for work, but she was so used to it by now that it hardly became a dark secret as it did an extension of herself - usually, she would stand on some street corner, away from her apartment…

( _Away from Grace_ )

…and wait for some rich businessman - or businesswoman, because there was no shortage of both that were high-strung and in need of a release, even if they were still fewer than men - to drive up. And there was no shortage of clients, either, mostly men though lately, eager to take the aggression of a long day inside an office on the closest body, and she was built for aggression, built her entire life around fighting for survival, so her body could handle a little bruising, a little squeezing, a little roughness.

A red sports car drives up along the curb, and she looks over her shoulder, turning to face them; her legs are barely covered by ripped stockings, feet covered in black boots, torso wrapped up in a threadbare tank top that hugs around the swell of her breasts, exposing her tan collarbone and shoulders lit up dimly under the street lamp.

Walking over, she makes a show of leaning over the window of the passenger’s seat, her lips curling up into a lazy grin, hungry and lustful. “Hey, handsome, lookin’ for some fun?”

She leaves with him - he drives her to a hotel, clean despite it being run-down and old. Her rules are pretty standard: __“_ No kissing on the mouth. Have to use a condom.”_ - and it’s the same spiel she tells the rest of her clients for the rest of the night until the sun starts to rise. By then, she’s all wobbly legs and dizzying vision, but she has money, more than she normally does, and that’s fine by her. It’s enough to pay for next month’s rent and get some food.

The sun lights up the streets, but instead of going right into her apartment building, she ducks into an alleyway - kept clean, compared to common conception, and she reaches behind the only non-smelly dumpster in the entire world for the gym bag she kept a bunch of clean clothing in, loose and big and comfortable. Shame is far from something she feels at this point as she slips off the low tank top and slips on a tee shirt from inside the bag, pulling a sweatshirt out on top of it, and a pair of hip-hugging jeans. Stuffing her sex-soaked clothes into the bag, she picks it up and puts it on her shoulder, walking back toward the apartment.

The wash room is empty when she gets inside, and as she loads a washer with her clothes, she feels her knees tremble, and she huffs a breath; her last customer, a heavy man with scratchy beard and a thick-- she has to brace herself on the washer, her hips sore, her knees sore, everything sore, and she has to grit her teeth to stop the groan in her throat before she continues putting clothes inside.

Starting the washer, she pulls herself over to a bench by the window, sinking into the cushions that wheeze under the weight of her and she leans back, running fingers down her thighs and over what were probably bruises over her hips and pelvis. It’s just her inside the room, so she allows herself a reprieve, breathing out loudly and uttering a broken little sound before she stands back up, walking over to the gym bag and dragging it over.

She’d deposited the cash from last night into a pocket on the inside, and she fumbled with tired, lazy, numb fingers to get it out, counting it within the confines of the bag, hidden from the naked eye, hidden from the cameras because she would be _damned_  if she let anybody see the things she had to do to give her sister a home, a safe place to sleep, shelter… her vision blurs, watered down, and she sniffs wetly as she pushes the money back into the pocket.

Plenty of money for next month’s rent and groceries.

The sound she made that time was more out of relief than the first sound was.

* * *

"Did you happen to pick up the weekly pamphlet while you were working?” Grace looked in the direction of Kat, despite her eyes being closed under a pair of sunglasses; she was dressed in a yellow frilly ensemble, lace and ruffles, the kind of thing that made her look every bit a princess as she looked. Kat, meanwhile, looked like she’d just rolled out of bed, with red hair dripping from a morning shower down her shoulders onto her tee shirt from earlier that morning.

“Uh, no. I didn’t. I’ll grab one now.”

Her voice was a little raw, stinging, but she couldn’t not speak to Grace. Walking away and returning seconds later with the store’s specials and sales printed on the pamphlet, she clutches a list in her pocket, glancing down at the words she’d messily scrawled onto it that morning. “Looks like your red potatoes are on sale this week. Want me to get some?”

A thoughtful tilt of the blonde’s head is her answer, before she smiles. “Okay.”

“Good. We’ll grab them near the end. For now, let’s get some meat.”

It was almost an hour later that the two walked out, a cart full of plastic bags and a satisfied smile on their faces as they walked back in the direction of Kat’s pick-up truck; there was some canned-food sale, where if one bought a case of canned vegetables or tomatoes, they were cheaper than usual and Kat had ended up hitting the ground running from there, picking up some chicken and beef and reduced-price, damaged goods. They would eat tonight, Kat would make sure of that, as she helped Grace into the passenger’s seat and proceeded to load the bags into the open bed of the truck.

The drive back to the apartment is mostly filled with Grace’s excited chatter, something where Kat’s input isn’t necessarily needed other than a hum in affirmative or a grunt in negative. Other than that, the redhead’s attention is on the road.

Sometimes, she wishes that she could do something else - she wishes her body wasn’t so used to being used like it was, almost every night, and even when she wasn’t working she was doing school work, essays, presentations… There was no rest, not for her. At least she didn’t usually work on the weekends, so her body was granted a relief from the usual hustle-and-bustle, a breath of fresh, cool air.

The chatter quieted as they grabbed the groceries - Kat gave Grace some light bags, some with bread in it, and another with packets of instant noodles, and helped her over to the elevator, meanwhile she went back to grab the heavier cases of cans - which took longer to get up to the apartment than it took to get them and bring them home in the first place. Still, the red-haired didn’t complain, even when she dropped some of the cans before she got inside the apartment, though the “ _Sonuva fuck!_ ” couldn’t be contained as well behind clenched teeth.

Finally, the groceries were brought in completely, mostly put away, before Grace looked around. Kat dropped onto the couch, beside her, and pulled her into a hug.

“You get to eat another day, kid.”

“Oh, ha ha,” chortled the girl before she sat back, making herself comfortable against Kat’s shoulder, before she crossed her hands over her flat stomach. “And you’re home for the weekend, right?”

“Yep,” sighed Kat, combing her fingers through the curly tendrils, grinning when she felt Grace’s body relax into her own - it wasn’t a secret that the younger of the twins had a much more sensitive scalp and loved when people played with her hair, so, Kat took about every opportunity to indulge herself in the softness of her sister’s hair.

The quiet afterwards was a nice change - the summer heat had been chased away by the autumn chill, the leaves outside already changed from vibrant green to crisp reds and oranges and browns. Despite her body better equipped for warmer weather, she loved fall, even if the inevitable winter months were drawing closer.

And winter, for her, was worse than anybody could ever do to her - she didn’t work during the winter, not on the streets, not after she nearly got hypothermia last time. No, there would be no more of that, but without money coming in in any other way, she wasn’t really sure what else she was supposed to do. She didn’t have any other talents, not that ‘letting someone have their way with her’ was much of a talent, but she couldn’t make anything and was hopeless on musical instruments.

Being homeless wasn’t an option. It was… kind of why she was putting her body through what she was.

Cutting back on drinking had helped a lot in that, though. It certainly hadn’t done her or Gracie any favors, anyway.

“Kat?”

“Hm?”

A tell-tale sign that the younger was uncomfortable was that she fidgeted - and Grace was a fairly still person, almost obedient in the way she carried herself, like someone with a judging eye was always watching her. So, to see her body squirm and feel as she tried to find a comfortable position again, Kat raised an eyebrow, a balance between perplexed and cautious.

“You know I don’t blame you, right?”

And that kind of feels like the wind has been knocked out of her, because they don’t _talk_ about it often, but when they do, the younger always tries to convince her that her own recklessness is not to blame for her sister’s blindness. But Kat, _oh Kat,_ she knows that if she… if she _hadn’t_ done what she did…

“We’re not talking about this, Grace. No.”

“But if you just-”

“I said…!”

And it’s a cruel reminder that she is _not_ the blind one, because the minute she sees her sister flinch a little bit and sit up, leaning away, she realizes that she’d used ‘The Voice’: the sort of low, booming voice that drapes over her like a cloak, wraps her up in more anger than she feels, gives her an authority that she’s not known for having.

Breathing in then breathing out, the redhead coaxes the heaviness away. “ _Look._ I don’t want to argue about it, okay? The last thing I need is you being upset over it. Just let it go, okay?”

Watching the tension seep out of Grace was like watching steam slip out of a tea pot’s spout, her body sinking comfortably back against the back of the couch. Puffing out her cheeks, Kat adjusts, facing forward and mirroring Grace’s posture before she pushed herself to sit on the coffee table across from Grace.

“I’m gonna take a look at your eyes now. Open ‘em, ba- …Grace.”

Grace waits for Kat’s palm to press against her cheek to do so, slowly letting her eyes flutter open, and after all this time the gray haze of her eyes isn’t as jarring and painful as it had been before. Rubbing her thumb along her right cheek, the redhead raises her other hand, palm facing Grace, and her eyes crinkle at the edges, eyebrows furrowed, expression tight and focused.

A light glows from her palm, hot and familiar.

But it fizzes - what should be warm and even and painless with proper training, is sharp and burning and makes her hiss.

“Fuck.”

“Kat?”

“Nothing. Just- just not… ready.”

Grace nods, as if she understands, but she doesn’t, and Kat pulls her hands away, rubbing her thumb across the middle of her palm and pressing outwards.

“Don’t worry. You’ll get it.”

“Yeah.”

But, Kat isn’t so sure. Not after five years of little use.

It wasn’t her fault that every time she tried, she focused, she saw her mother’s body behind her eyelids, broken and not moving.

Closing her hand into a fist, she mutters a “I’m going to start dinner,” before walking out.


End file.
